


Dance of Shame

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Silly, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Repress," Rodney says to himself. "Repress repress repress." He takes another drink to help himself along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance of Shame

The room is too hot for the stiff breeze teasing the edges of the windows, all of them pushed as wide as their hinges will allow. Atlantis doesn't often get a chance to cut loose, and even when they do have the time, there's hardly a lot of inclination. The military personnel have their own definition of what's fun, usually completely at odds to what the scientists enjoy.

Rodney still remembers their first mixer, when tiny Kusangi, among others, drank most of the marines under the table. Nobody drinks like a scientist, after all.

This party has more than a hint of desperation to it, but with the unstated understanding that _nothing leaves this room_ \-- like Vegas, only a lot funnier -- even the senior staff have unbent enough to join the increasingly raunchy, sex-laced partying.

Or at least, Sheppard has. The man had been drinking with Ronon, which at least explains some of what's going on. Ronon has the constitution of an ox (Miko's trying to build up her tolerance; she can't ever say no to a challenge) and Sheppard had matched him drink for drink.

So it's not really a surprise when Rodney squints blearily into the middle of the room where two dozen of the more drunk party-goers are dancing. Including Sheppard. Who is just drunk enough, apparently, not to care what he looks like.

Rodney bites his lip. Hard.

"Is this normal?" Teyla's had her own drink -- or three, or ten -- and while she's too serene and composed to actually cut loose the way McKay is honestly _dying_ to see, she does look a little more flushed than usual and her eyes are pretty glassy as she watches Sheppard da -- er, flail against Susan Daniels, who is clearly using all of her remaining self control to _not_ laugh at her commanding officer. "I have seen your dancing before, and while I admit it lacks much in the way of measure..."

She trails off, eyes widening as Sheppard executes what was _probably_ an attempt at dipping the Corporal. Fortunately, she's sober enough to catch Sheppard before he falls on his face.

"Well, if you're talking about classic ballroom dance, or even the Latin styles, then we can be as ritualistic as you like," Rodney lectures, because he needs his own distractions from the monkey howling he can feel building in his chest. "Our modern dances are a lot less formal, yes, but what you're witnessing here is Drunk White Man. It's a fascinating species, most of all because no one can understand how on _any_ planet Drunk White Man can actually pull a female. Between the odd, jumping gyrations and chest-thumping with other Drunk White Man dancers, the inability to find either rhythm or beat, and most of all, the consistent _a_ bility to trample and painfully mash various parts of your partner... well. Just _look_ at him."

Sheppard is giving all the geeky kids Rodney grew up with a serious run for their money. Rodney knows it's only partially due to how drunk he is -- McKay's seen him attempt dancing before and basically, this is just the louder, messier version. Currently, Sheppard is tilting his sweat-shiny face to the strobe lighting that Simpson had set up, gasping in what appears to be some sort of enjoyment as he... well, politely it would be called writhing. Rodney's not sure what the actual term is, beyond Oh God Never Show Me That Again.

"He's never going to get laid that way," Teyla says, shockingly calm, while Rodney and anyone close enough to have heard her splutters in disbelief. It's a wide circle since Teyla's got most of Atlantis trained to listen for her low, melodic timbre.

"Repress," Rodney says to himself. "Repress repress repress." He takes another drink to help himself along.

He glances up in time to see Sheppard grip Daniels' ass in both hands, a move that's actually to ensure he doesn't fall down, rather than something sexual. Everyone can see Sheppard's balance problems, but still, it's impossible _not_ to make faces at poor Daniels, staring past the spikey head resting heavily on her shoulder, out at the gyrating dancers who aren't gyrating so much as barely swaying as they watch Daniels, terrified and clearly begging -- and when that doesn't work, glaring out silent orders -- for someone to help her already.

Rodney doesn't realizes he's laughing hysterically until Daniels narrows her eyes, promising death and retribution to anyone who's laughing, which is pretty much the whole room, at this point. Three weeks on Atlantis and everyone's treated to Sheppard's 'bonding', his pathetic attempts to be the cool, friendly commanding officer, so it's not really a _surprise_ he's part of the Drunk White Man club, but still.

Sheppard's coolness lies in the fact that when the video of this surfaces -- and it so will, Rodney'll make sure of that -- he won't be mad so much as amused, laughing along with everyone else.

Humiliated, sure. But Sheppard can take it.

That's for later, though, tomorrow, or maybe the next day if this hangover lasts as long as Rodney suspects. Right now there's just Sheppard, oblivious, as he trips over his own two feet, head nodding to a beat he only occasionally catches, and continues the Drunk White Man dance of shame.


End file.
